


(R)EQUIEM

by FlowerKnight



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Amadeus AU, Enemies to Lovers, Enjolras as Mozart, Grantaire as Salieri, M/M, Why Did I Write This?, y'all can fight me on this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-15
Updated: 2018-05-01
Packaged: 2019-01-16 23:19:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12352602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlowerKnight/pseuds/FlowerKnight
Summary: Grantaire had everything. His position as maestro of Versailles. His name in the favours of the King. Until Enjolras, an effortlessly talented musician came and turned his life around. Grantaire hated Enjolras. If only hate was a simple thing.





	1. Overture

**Author's Note:**

> (R)EQUIEM would be nothing without the infinite patience and help of GaHyuga (carry-on-josten.tumblr.com) to whom I am eternally thankful

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Mozart - Variations on Mio Caro Adone by Salieri, in G Major KV 180"  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6vYFV1bEnH4

    Grantaire leant against the pillar. Notes were filling the room, lighter than air, decorating the palace with more art than any golden or painted embellishment will ever do. He swung his bottle up and took another sip of wine. He glanced quickly at the audience - one of the many benefits of wandering around in the backstage wings, where his presence was so common no one was acknowledging him anymore - they were delighted. Taken away. They loved it. They poured their soul into listening to the piece, as if they were listening to the mass. They adored it. More than everything he ever did and probably will ever do. Grantaire had to admit it: he was as spellbound as the audience was. Every note was akin to a chorus of angels and God wrote every phrase through this man. Grantaire could have had died right there. He would give up on eating, drinking and anything related to earthly needs so if that meant he could be a little bit closer to God, a little longer. Hell, he would even give up on his music if it were not him. Him.  
    Him. Why, of all living people on Earth, God would speak through such a mongrel, a self-righteous upstart, a worthlessly talented idiot. Why. Grantaire was green. Green with disgust, bitterness, envy. He had poured his heart and soul to music, only to serve his King and God above him. Yet, it was not enough for Him. Either God hated him, either He did not exist. Or both. An entity that did not exist and still managed to hate him anyway. And to make him pay.

    It had been a few years since Grantaire had left his Italy for France; and, even if his native country was the land that nurtured him with art and purpose, being the musician of the Royal Court of Paris had been his lifelong dream. In the last few years, Paris had been the home and the very heart of the most renowned composers and the finest pieces of music ever written. He knew the day he would not be the only court musician would come; only he could not have had foreseen that day coming so fast.  
    The golden-plated swirls, the marble statues, the lavish paintings, everything that once made him want to eat the world raw had taken the taste of ashes. Ashes he had been trying to drown in wine ever since, in vain. Grantaire remembered the day the brat barged in the King’s office and changed his life for the worst.  
    A day like any other, and all was well. The King had asked for a piece as a gift for a new member of the Court “a musician, just like you!” he had said. So Grantaire had written a piece - a short fugue for pianoforte, something simple, unpretentious, yet bold; he had taken good care of putting his wits at work: he could teach the newcomer, take him under his wing, perhaps. However, letting him be a threat to his position, welcoming a rival into his life, was out of the picture. He should have seen it coming.  
    Humiliated. He had been humiliated. Before the very eyes of the Versailles. The memory of this day was still stinging him; the aftermath of a slap across the face. His looks were close to those of a deity but Grantaire was not mistaken: his deeds were the ones of an imp.  
   Enjolras was the name of the one Grantaire elected his nemesis within minutes of meeting him. He turned his life around with one sentence. “The notes, they don’t love each other”, he had said, shaking his head. He then sat just next to him, in front of the pianoforte and played the fugue; changing bits here and there. Grantaire was astonished. Grantaire knew, hearing Enjolras playing, that God had abandoned him. He had devoted his life to music and God, studying hard and working harder. Yet, Enjolras came, blessed with this effortless talent, turning a merely decent piece into a classic that would survive through the ages, given the chance. It was so simple yet perfect: within seconds, Enjolras knew how to create this technical perfection of a piece. He corrected mistakes Grantaire would never have found. Grantaire had given his life to music and God. God spit it right back at his face and the muses of music denied him the gift to bless Enjolras freely, without any bargain.  

    Massive applause broke out from the audience, bringing the mind of Grantaire back in reality. Enjolras rose from the pianoforte and… Grantaire was certain he caught the glimpse of a glance towards him before Enjolras bowed to the crowd. Grantaire, unsettled, had no other choice but to face the cold, harsh, truth, hearing the roaring applause filling the air; he used to be the Court’s favourite. And his time was counted. In no time, Enjolras had risen and sparked interest in a striking number of dignitaries - those who allowed Grantaire to make a living in exchange for his art. Enjolras barged into his life and proceeded to take everything away from him. Grantaire started to disdain his music, and his earnings were dwindling more and more each time the Sun rose. He drank swiftly the last sip of wine before retreating to his quarters, silently promising himself to take back his life.


	2. Adagio

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Mozart: Die Entfuhrung Aus Dem Serail - Ein Deutsches Krie & Turkish Finale"  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=91GucyYA1RA

    Versailles was a fickle mistress. Grantaire had learnt it the hard way. What she gave, she had the ability to take back on a whim. Versailles had given him the hope to make a living thanks to his music, and take his revenge on his father at the same time. His father, who always had disdained him for the art that made his heart beat faster, and did everything he could to push him down the accounting path - “family business” he had said. The day his father passed away from a heart attack had been the miracle he had been waiting for so long. Grantaire had fled to Paris the day they held his funerals. And he fought. He fought his way through Paris; he fought his way to Versailles. And he had thought he fought enough for a lifetime, he had thought he could settle to a calmer lifestyle. He was wrong. He let down his guard once and allowed Enjolras to take his toll on his life. Therefore, Grantaire knew he had to fight again.  
    He swore to ruin Enjolras. A pledge, struck between him and his very conscience. Grantaire always had a hard time fulfilling his promises, and if there was one promise he had to keep it was this one. He had talked to the nobles he knew; he told them how Enjolras was arrogant, irreverent, infuriatingly persistent. To every commission Enjolras could have had a shot at; Grantaire had ensured its loss. He had but one certainty: slowly, he was going to drive Enjolras out of Versailles. Small talk by small talk. Feeding snide evocations to each and every ear in Versailles eager to spread the rumour.

    “Have you seen the man? Parading around the Court, puffed as a peacock, playing the Monsieurs. Who do he think he is?”

    “Enjolras? Oh, le Duc de Mantoue cancelled his commission - he said to him the morals and values of the Court were a burden!”

    “He dared to ask the permission to the great chaplain to compose a work that had been censored by the King, no wonder why he called him a thug and a moron!”

    And, as the hearsay grew, so was his guilt, thoroughly nested in his stomach; restless at day, and aching his whole being when night came. Grantaire was not one for self-love, never had been; he had once thought that he could not sink lower, however, he found out he was as wrong as one can be. Ruining the reputation of Enjolras, although being an easy task to accomplish, was slanderously low. For years he had risen with work and dedication, and in the face of hardship, he had turned to lies and deceit.  
    As the days went, Grantaire got commissioned again, more, composing for weddings, masses, funerals, giving classes to ungifted, affluent youngsters; an old routine that came back like an old friend that never really came amiss. Though, with his routine came boredom… And doubt. Grantaire wished to see Enjolras gone, to keep him out of his life; and if the stance was crystal clear for him, it appeared that both parties were not in tune.

    “Do you think that an organ will fit on the opera stage?”

    Enjolras had talked to him, had asked him for advice regarding the Court etiquette; and, even weirder - or worst, he had yet to sort out the realization: Enjolras did not hate him.

    “What if the chorus was in Latin? Would it be appropriate to the Court?”

    Enjolras treated him as a peer, a colleague, an equal - elevating Grantaire to a pedestal he did not wanted to be a part of. Enjolras was the sheer embodiment of brilliance - music was his mother tongue - and considering Grantaire as his equal was not a privilege for him but a blatant lie. Grantaire knew a thousand of lives would not suffice for him to reach Enjolras’ prowesses. “What was Enjolras trying to do?” had wondered Grantaire one day, as he was briskly pacing through his apartments. His question was left unanswered, and the music was left pending; the doors flung open as Enjolras barged into his room.

    “Grantaire! I need your help.  
\- Enjolras? But it’s the middle of the night!  
\- I’ve been commissioned!  
\- I… Fail to see how is this a problem.  
\- The King has commissioned me! The King himself!”  
    Grantaire remained silent for a second, taken aback. Even that, even ruining Enjolras was something he could not succeed at; how would have the King commissioned him otherwise? Yet, somehow, he did not feel as much as a failure as usual – for once, maybe just this once, he was glad he did not succeed. Grantaire felt the guilt release its grip on his chest.  
    “Congratulations, Enjolras. You deserve this.  
\- Thank you.  
\- So… Did you actually come here just to say this or…?”  
   He invited Enjolras to sit with an over dramatic gesture as he poured two glasses of red wine. The man shook his head, silently declining his proposition… But took the glass of wine nevertheless.  
    “No. I need your help. See, the King commissioned an opera in French.  
\- In French?  
\- Isn’t it brilliant? What a better way but music to enhance the beauty of our language!  
\- That’s… An original stance.  
\- It sure is! Anyway, the issue is… I have it all written already.  
\- Is that an issue?  
\- Yes! They will never find it appropriate for the National theatre.  
\- Do you want me to take a look at your libretto?  
\- I’m afraid it’s not written yet!  
\- But you said…”  
    Enjolras paused for a second. All he had done so far was absent-mindedly fidgeting with the glass Grantaire had handed him earlier. Grantaire realized he was halfway down his own glass. Old habits die hard.  
    “It’s all set in my head, but I have yet to put everything down on actual paper.  
\- Oh.  
\- I need you to convince the government that the opera is appropriate once I’ll tell them about it; because, you see, it’s about a man, a bread thief, who escapes from jail and finds redemption through the persons he meets along the way, but the police still wants him in jail and…  
\- That’s… Enjolras, that’s a fitting idea for an opera, but that will never fits the moral criteria of our leaders. I just can’t help you with this.  
\- Why not? It’s not going to feature harlots or… Or… I don’t know! It’s charming! It’s highly moral, full of proper French values!  
\- French values? Well, being a foreigner I’d like to hear about them!  
\- Well, love!”  
    Grantaire could not stop a sour laugh from crossing his lips as he poured himself another glass of wine.  
    “Love? Oh, of course in Italy we know nothing about love!  
\- No, I don’t think you do. I mean, watching Italian opera. All those male sopranos screeching, stupid noble couples rolling their eyes and their R’s, that’s not love; it’s just rubbish.  
\- Enjolras, I am not helping you with this. The only thing I can tell you is: write something more conventional.  
\- Conventional? To Hell with their conventions, damn their rules, they’re killing the very essence of art, can’t they see this?”  
    Grantaire had witnessed the cheeks of Enjolras growing red as his fire began to sparkle through his words. He felt his grip tightened on his glass as Enjolras downed his wine in a split second.  
    “Have you never studied music? We musicians and artists are granted more freedom now than in the past centuries. You can’t possibly ignore the scientific diligence of Bach, whose art wasn’t killed but shaped by conventions; and have you forgot already about Lully, who created most of these rules?  
\- Bach and Lully thrived in their times – and thanks God we are not their contemporaries! What do you suggest exactly? Are we going to live in the past forever for the sake of old and out of date conventions? Give it a break, Grantaire.  
\- You’re not going anywhere with such an attitude.  
\- Funny thing, really, that you’re the one talking of attitude here. Let us see where yours will lead you, shall we? Maybe you are willing to censor yourself for them, but I refuse to do so.  
\- Good night, Enjolras.”

    Enjolras stormed out of the room as promptly as he had let himself in a few minutes before. Grantaire managed to grab an unopened bottle of wine before letting himself sink to the floor. He took a long sip of wine to catch his breath. He hated Enjolras. With all of his soul. He hated his fame. He hated his genius. He hated how he had an entire opera sorted out on his mind on a whim. He hated his freedom. He hated his burning passion. He hated his silvery voice. He hated his blue, piercing eyes that had the raging spark of the youth and the thoughtful glance of the wisdom given by the years. He hated his cracked lips, who turned crimson when he was nervously biting them. He hated when he was nervously biting his lips. He hated his long, delicate hands, able of prodigies he could have never fathom. He hated his untamed, golden curls, which framed the face who put marble statues to shame. He hated Enjolras.


	3. Allegro

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Mozart - Symphony no.25 (1st mvmt)"  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GIHQivoISco

    Grantaire leant against the pillar. Rare were those occasions where he did not enjoy a ball and its abundance of gossips and liquor. Swinging his bottle up, he pensively sipped his red wine, his gaze lost between his usual daydream and Enjolras, to whom he dedicated too many of his thoughts lately. As usual, as conceited as he was, Enjolras was in the limelight, focused on the pianoforte, deft hands on the ivory and deaf ears to his surroundings. Maybe that was Enjolras after all, maybe that was the peculiar essence of his talent; unconsciously capturing the minds of those around him and holding them captive in his music. His own soul seemed trapped in the notes he was playing, as if his hands were acting apart from his own will, guided by a force that was not from their world. Enjolras himself was not from his world at least, and even for all the bitterness he nurtured towards him, Grantaire knew nothing could prevent his soul from being drawn in every measure he created. His music was chaos, but chaos with a balance; had a single note been changed and everything would fall apart. Grantaire was never able to name the feeling he had each time he listened to him: everything he created made sense, as if it was the only possibility, as if challenging the particular logic of his music would have been defying truth itself; as if it was always there, when it was not existing a second ago.  
    He did not join the applause when Enjolras bowed next to the piano. He did not flee when Enjolras went straight to him. He did not flinch when Enjolras placed a light hand on his shoulder. He did not meet his gaze when he felt his glance on him. He did not answer when Enjolras asked him to have a talk in a whisper. However, he did feel his body turn into stone when he noticed Enjolras approaching. He did try - and succeed - to appear indifferent, insensitive to his gentle touch. He did turn his eyes away when he felt his look heavy with meaning and blame, probably. He did not answer to his soft voice, akin to music, as his whole being was, which whispered his question with such melody that all it needed was an Alberti bass to create a proper musical sentence; but what else was there left for him to do but follow Enjolras to the antechamber abutting the ballroom?

    Enjolras closed the door behind him and the music ceased. They had cautiously avoided each other for the past weeks - or at least, Grantaire did. He did not expect such a reunion. In fact, he did not expect a reunion at all.  
    “I didn’t think I would see you tonight,” said Enjolras. He uttered his words in such a cold tone and with such a stern stance that Grantaire, bewildered, did not answer. Why, he thought, side with ice when fire finely fitted him.  
    But Enjolras did not give up.  
    “I thought we needed to talk. I thought you were agreeing with me since you followed me. But maybe I was wrong.”  
    Memories of his mother scolding him resurfaced in Grantaire’s mind, prompting him into silence.  
    “Obviously, I was wrong.”  
    Enjolras turned around and reached for the door. It was like an instinct, more of an impulse actually; Grantaire had no say in his body’s decision to grab Enjolras’ arm before he touched the door handle. He regained his composure just in time not to instinctively let a curse cross his lips. Enjolras’ wrist was warm, delicate under his loosen grip - Enjolras was of a frail nature and he did not want to harm him.  
    “Wait.”  
    Grantaire dared to peer into Enjolras’ eyes; blue eyes, reminiscent of an ocean - deep, ageless, a calm that could yield to rage in a second. How he had missed them.  
    “Last time was stupid. We…  
\- At least, we agree on this.”  
    He let go of his wrist as he swept aside Enjolras’ interruption.  
    “When it came to conventions, we were both right and wrong; but have you not seen the riots in Paris? You can’t… It’s too dangerous to choose a protagonist that would engage in those uprisings. Especially when the Crown of France commissioned the opera.  
\- Dangerous? So what, are you afraid?  
\- Afraid. Are you for real?”  
    The second his last words crossed his lips, Grantaire wished to swallow them back. Not that Enjolras could have found out in any way; but he knew that he once unironically asked himself the question… The first time he saw him.  
    “You talked about riots, yes, I have seen them. What we call riots today, France will call them Revolution tomorrow. And we will hear the people sing.  
\- Unfortunately, however utopist you are about them, the riots will be nothing more than riots... If not bloodsheds, because the King isn't going to let them happen for much longer. And I sincerely doubt the Court and the Royalty will appreciate the redemption and apology of a law-breaking thief you’ll be feeding them. And the atmosphere is already filled with insecurity thanks to all those tensions in Paris.”  
    Grantaire knew he talked faster, his voice less steady. Enjolras did not answer straight away. Grantaire almost lost his breath when a satisfied smile slowly spread across Enjolras’ face.  
    “Well, at least they’ll get the message in music. Maybe they’ll even find themselves enjoying it.  
\- Enjolras… They’re going to censor you. Or even worst. You can’t…  
\- Fancy seeing that yourself?”  
    Enjolras had interrupted him again. But that did not matter much to Grantaire. His smile had widened even more as he pronounced his last sentence. Was it… A challenge? His tone was utterly defiant. As his smile was. Grantaire’s train of thoughts was derailing. Maybe Enjolras knew that his opera would cause a stir in the higher ranks of the government, to say the least. Maybe he figured out his conflicted feelings towards him. Grantaire locked his gaze onto Enjolras’ incisive look. He knew.  
And maybe Enjolras was offering him the opportunity to witness his zenith and his downfall.  
    “Pardon?  
\- The premiere is in a week. I’d be honoured if you came.”  
    He was convinced that Enjolras was playing with him. Grantaire had been torturing himself with the question for the past days, and had yet to make up his mind on it. But Enjolras was playing with him. And he was not going to give him that pleasure.  
    “I have to think about it.”  
    Goddamnit, Grantaire.  
    “See you in a week, then,” said Enjolras, his smile turned to a smug grin as he left the room.

    A week. Grantaire had never seen the time fly so fast. And the Grand Opening of Enjolras’ opera was the next rendezvous of the high society; the King, having commissioned the piece, would attend, as well as the Royal family. The elite of Versailles and Paris will be attending, but will he? Six days and six nights were not enough for Grantaire to find an answer.  
    Answer which came to him on the seventh night. What was the point of him attending the public representation of his further humiliation? The rumours would tell him everything he would need to know the very next day. And Enjolras would enjoy his presence too much. Grantaire knew he would not stand the sufficient smile that Enjolras would serve him. He fell asleep, feeling lighter than the previous nights, knowing that, for once, he had taken a wise decision.  
    The curtain rose as applause broke out from the audience. The King and the Queen were royally seated on their thrones, the gold plating decor catching most of the eyes in the room. Light, gold, fire; they had that power, the power to lure mankind like moths to a flame - and that, thought Grantaire, restless in his seat, was Enjolras. Enjolras, whose unruly golden curls, shining under the lights, smile as large and bright as the Sun, stole the eyes from the thrones to his being as he bowed. He was wearing a red coat. Red was a dangerous colour. Red was his lips, his music, but red was also the blood of those who tried to have their voices heard outside, in Paris, and red were the flags they waved. Red was dangerous, bold, daring. Enjolras wore it like a second skin. An offended whisper went through the crowd. In 1789, something was rotten about red.  
    However, red was the least of the Court’s worries when the first notes of the Overture resonated against the walls of the Opera. And Grantaire’s mind was taken straight away to the cold streets of Paris, where beggars and orphans shared misery and the streets. He was plunged into the ruthless hunt the authority led against a bread thief; and he ran along with him as he ran away from poverty and prison. Then came the riots, the blossom of a revolution. There was blood as there was love, and Grantaire found himself rooting for the youngsters who died at the hands of canons and drums. He felt the warm embrace of redemption as the singer on the stage sang his last words, and the last earthly words of his character.  
    “Même la nuit la plus sombre prendra fin et le Soleil se lèvera.”  
    “Even the darkest night will end and the Sun will rise.”  
    If the lyrics struck him repeatedly, the last verse, chorused by the ensemble, went straight to his heart. If there was one sentence that could have sparked his belief for the future back to life, it was this one. The sentence was of a remarkable utopy, but yet stated the simplest and more obvious truth there is; and Grantaire, astonished, was almost angry at himself for not having thought of this before. Maybe… Maybe there was some hope for the future. Maybe things will change, for France, for him. Maybe there was hope for him.  
    And as the violins’ vibrato lasted on the fermata, Grantaire knew the piece would stick in his mind for days.  
    The music was masterful, magnificent. Tearing his soul, making his heart pound and filling him with joy; Enjolras handled emotions like the marionettist handle their marionettes - and strings never wore their name so well. The opera of Enjolras was a masterpiece. A lavish, daring, astonishing masterpiece.  
    If a shy applause began to rise, it was promptly shut down by the silence of the royal couple. Neither Louis XVI nor Marie-Antoinette applauded, and they seemed to be the farthest from engaging in the act. Grantaire could not see their faces but their silence and stillness were chilling. Enjolras was facing them, silent, dignified, and his face did not bear even the slightest shadow of a regret. The King and Queen, sporting contempt and displeasure on their face like make-up left their thrones and hurried to the exit. The audience swiftly followed their lead. Not a word was uttered, and at that moment, Grantaire learnt that there was nothing but silence to use disregard as a weapon. But Enjolras was still standing. On that night, there was no ball, no festivity; and something was off at Versailles. The tension-filled atmosphere that was reigning in Paris had reached the Palace. Enjolras had brought the riots inside Versailles, sticking the heavy revolutionary imagery into the nobility’s heads.  
    Grantaire did not see Enjolras after his representation, and he did not cross his path once he was back at the palace; neither sleep nor rest did cross his path that night. And as the first rays of the Sun peered through Grantaire’s window, a clatter outside achieved to convince him to leave the bed in which he had turned too many times already. Down in the marble court, two valets were loading luggage into a black carriage. Enjolras stormed out the palace and took place inside the coach. Grantaire’s heart skipped a beat. He had to look at him, he had to remember his curls, his face, his voice, he had but a second to learn his way to move. He was not going to see him again and he had so little time to remember him. Enjolras glanced at him, straight into his eyes, straight into his bare soul; was it a faint smile he saw? The carriage disappeared in the woods; and as the golden gates closed in a heavy sound, the music ceased.  
    On this day, Enjolras was expelled from Versailles.


	4. Andante

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Mozart - Flute and Harp Concerto - II. Andante"  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GalkXM4h5SY

    The day Enjolras left the Court was the day Enjolras left Grantaire’s life. The weight on his shoulders, on his chest came back, heavier than ever, when the carriage disappeared. Colours faded when Enjolras’ blue eyes were torn away from his, when the golden gates opened - a gold that did not measure to his. Wine entered Grantaire’s life, along with pride, envy, lust and Enjolras - Grantaire did not realise wine would stay once he was gone. Once everything would be gone. And not only did wine stay, but wine blurred. Music went dim, people turned into distant silhouettes, their words into faint whispers, and day and night became twins to Grantaire’s eyes. He had given up on opening his shutters - and on making room for the Sun. “Quite an irony,” he thought, “to deny the Sun his rightful palace”.  
    Enjolras had left, and with him Grantaire’s grip on reality. But he still had a firm grasp on his bottle, and if the cold glass and bitter wine were the last things he would feel, then, that would be enough. He did not need anything else. God, music, light, life altogether, he had regretfully tasted enough of them. And wine did an excellent job of making him forget the world and its misery. Grantaire had first shut the music out. And people. And the Sun. And one morning, he shut movement out of his life - “why”, he had asked himself “why even bother”, and Grantaire gave up on leaving his bed. Wine stayed, and wine was all he had left. Wine and the even more bitter taste of numbness.  
    Time stretched out. Or shrank. The days were endless, and yet the moment Enjolras disappeared turned into a memory faster than Grantaire was willing to admit. Days. Was it days ? Maybe it was weeks. Or months. Months. So much had happened. France worsened. Versailles worsened. Grantaire worsened. The Estates General opened - the calling made Versailles shake on her foundations -  when Grantaire burnt his last music sheet. What was Enjolras doing now ? The King dissolved the assembly - doubt, doubt had taken the Court by storm, hundreds of self-righteous nobles doubted about the future, how Enjolras would have loved the sight - when Grantaire’s meals became more wine than food.  Was he still in Paris ? And the riots stormed the streets again when Grantaire, drunk, dishevelled, having dread the Sun for longer than it takes for flowers to falter, woke up to the light. The stifling numbness that had bedridden him for the past months, confined him into self-pity, drowned him in wine, had… Not left, but took a step back. And let light into the foreground. Grantaire worked for Enjolras’ removal. He was going to bring him home.

    Grantaire poured his soul into redeeming Enjolras like Enjolras poured his soul into his music. He did not give up on wine but he began to leave his room again. To give classes here and there. To attend balls, where the alcohol consumption was matching his. Grantaire never knew if he liked the balls or the escapism through carelessness they offered - along the profusion of drinks. But escapism ceased to be the sole reason for his attendance.  Grantaire talked again. He talked to the drunk counts and baronesses, told them how Enjolras deserved Versailles. He poured countless glass of wines and explained how Enjolras belonged to Versailles. He had whispered and talked and explained again and again, until it echoed throughout every room, until his words were carved on the walls, until Versailles herself murmured that Enjolras embodied her very soul. And the questioning tone of the Court echoed back.  
    Grantaire learnt his lesson the hard way. Not that he did not try - quite the contrary. But that was the irony of the universe. He gave everything he had and maybe even more. He gave the best of him, and still - still. It was not enough. Enjolras had cast a light so blazing upon Versailles - and the brighter the light, the deeper the shadows it creates. The Court had not forgotten, the Court had not forgave the ghost, the whisper of a shifting world Enjolras had opened the door to ; an idea they tried so hard to ignore, hidden in Versailles - far, blind and deaf to the misery of France hovering at the golden gates. And Grantaire had failed, failed so hard, to bring some moderation to the uneasy hearts of the nobility so they could welcome Enjolras again. The night of the opera, Enjolras had picked a side and, de facto, pressed Versailles to pick one as well ; and there was no redeeming such an affirmation, and Grantaire had yet to wrap his mind around the realization. Enjolras was not coming back to Versailles, Enjolras would never come back. And what if Grantaire was to never see him again ?

    The Fates were whimsical and Grantaire knew that nothing was set in stone. Fate was not a straight, static path. And the note in his hands was further proving the volatile nature of the deities steering his life. A note sealed with wax, a seal he knew well - the Royal seal, not less. The King was summoning him. To a public hearing. Grantaire knew that meant nothing good for him.  
    He had met the King before, several times even. Louis XVI was a young monarch, about the same age as him. Grantaire was stricken the first time he met him : he was not expecting a young, soft-spoken man whose interests were lying elsewhere than in State affairs - an inconvenience for a King. Louis XVI did not want to be King, but he knew nothing else. It was comforting for Grantaire, when he arrived to Versailles, that he was not the only one at a loss. He quickly discovered that, when it came to locksmithing, geography, clock-making and music, Louis was sweet, passionate, a young adult eager to discover. But when government meetings were taking place, when he had to take care of State matters, when he had to take on his role as the King of France, he turned into a dull, bored person, an allayed student dreaming of truanting. But Louis XVI did not know better than to be King. He was born and raised for the position, and one could feel the weight of history and of his ancestors upon him by giving but one glance at the man. And so was the Queen, Marie-Antoinette. Rumour was that the first lady of France could not articulate even one word of proper French. Truth was, she had the thickest German accent Grantaire had ever heard. He found himself feeling sorry for the Queen, sometimes. She had been catapulted to France as soon as she had been old enough to marry and became in no time the Queen of France. But France had a bitter welcome and an even bitter idea of a Queen that does not understand her country. Marie-Antoinette was part of a diplomatic manœuvre she had no understanding of, and was drowning her homesickness in dresses worth several farms - did she know about the misery outside Versailles? Did she know about her people, after all, who were dying of cold and hunger? Grantaire never settled his mind on the matter.

    Marie-Antoinette’s pastel dress was magnificent, covered in ribbons and pearls ; Louis’ silk outfit was of a deep, vibrant blue ; the royal colour. Grantaire approached them slowly, with all due respect according to the etiquette. Right foot first, three steps, a bow, three steps, a bow, the inquisitive looks of the Court on him, Grantaire, do not forget about the right foot first, and the last bow, bow down, at a respectful distance from the thrones.  
    “Your Majesty”, he began, still bowed down - was he supposed to begin he did not know anymore, but it was too late to back down now. “Has summoned me.”  
    “I did. Grantaire, you are aware that the other Court composer has been sent away.  
\- I am, your Majesty. And with all due respect, may I enquire why did your Majesty welcomed two Court composers? That was a bit... Unconventional, to say the least.  
\- You are not the one to ask the questions here. I had my reasons for having two Court composers, which you are not to question, and the two of you were supposed to work together. To collaborate. Not only did I not had to witness any kind of cooperation, but your former colleague wrote the most subversive piece of art and you know as well as everyone else that those are not times for subversion. Paris is already a great deal of worry and I do not have the time to monitor my musicians.”  
    Louis’ tone was stern, but not cold, his voice soft as always, but distinct, the hall acoustics allowing everyone to hear, to drink his words.  
    “Is this the reason your Majesty has summoned me ?  
\- You were summoned because not only you did not work with your colleague, but you did not work at all - unless I failed to notice that but I am not blind !”  
    A touch of humour which sparkled muffled chuckles among the Court behind Grantaire. Maybe the King was witty. Or maybe the Court’s first purpose was to flatter the royal ego. But Louis was right nevertheless.  
    “Your Majesty is right. Please, accept my apology.  
\- And frankly, young man, France’s finances are too tight to pay for your life at the Court since you weren’t working and can’t reclaim yourself of any rank that would entitle you to be there.  
\- Pardon me, Your Majesty, but I am not sure to understand - does that mean that my place at Versailles is at stake ?  
\- Not immediately, but please, as a subject of the Crown, you are to get back to work at once. Write, compose, teach, rehearse, do as you please as long as you’re doing what you’re supposed to do.  
\- Your Majesty is asking me to compose but doesn’t authorize the ballettos in Operas. Your Majesty is asking me to write but so many pieces tailored to be the most entertaining works on stage are censored. Your Majesty is asking me to do my job, but the rules we musicians are to abide to are overwhelming. Your Majesty, all we are truly free to do is music for the masses but even there, there are forbidden chords, chords who are deemed offensive to and by the Church. And your Majesty knows that Te Deums are not my forte.  
\- Grantaire, you have been brought here to put your music at the service of the Crown, the Church, and above all what is greater than us, the grandeur of France and History. Are you telling your King that you refuse to comply with the laws of those you are to serve ?”  
    Grantaire, taken aback, did not answer straight away. The King had raised his voice, his words almost echoing against the walls ; his tone sterner, and the loud silence further proving his point. Memories of his fight with Enjolras resurfaced. Conventions, rules. Killing the very essence of art, he had said to him. And, here, facing Louis XVI, he was beginning to think he was right. Maybe those conventions were not a frame, but a yoke of strictness, possibly keeping music from moving forward. And what was there left for him in Versailles ?  
    “Your Majesty is absolutely right. I do not consent to those laws and therefore can’t put my music to the service of those who made them.Your Majesty, gentlemen of the human race, I say to Hell with the lot of you.”   
    Grantaire turned his back to the King and Queen and bowed down to the Court - Versailles never witnessed a bow so irreverent. He heard the outraged gasps and the aghast, gaping faces of the Court. He had crossed the King and the etiquette when he turned his back on Louis XVI and Marie-Antoinette. Grantaire thought that it was maybe the most entertainment they had in years ; no doubt his performance was going to be on everyone’s lips for the days to come. And, without facing the monarchs again, he left the room. And, without looking back, he left Versailles.

    Paris. Paris had this atmosphere Grantaire found nowhere else. The children of the streets and their shenanigans, the merchants collaring the shoppers, the bell ringing at the end of the marketplace and the beggars rushing at the call, and, far away, the hollerings of the riot. Paris smelt of liberty, and Grantaire was free. Where to now? Grantaire had all the freedom and time in the world. He nevertheless had one place in mind. A few discussions and some more gold coins to the servants of Versailles had given him the information he yearned for. The address of Enjolras. Or his supposed place of residence, at least.  
    La Bastille. Enjolras was staying almost next to la Bastille. Grantaire always assumed Enjolras hated the place - it was a prison, a military prison nonetheless. But there was more to the district than the prison ; there were the many busy shopping streets and some of the most attractive markets of Paris. Busy. The district of la Bastille was busy and crowded, and, with the rising temperatures of June, it was literally one of the hottest area of Paris. Grantaire made his way through the crowd, a crowd indifferent to Versailles and its Court and its shallowness - it was refreshing, not to hear whispers, not to catch the heavy glances, not to think about each and every move. The weight on his shoulders, on his chest did not disappear - but leaving Versailles did alleviate the pressure. And Grantaire finally arrived at his door.  
    His door. Well, the door of the tenement at least. An old building, not worn, not wretched. And above all, nothing like Versailles. No gold, no plated swirls, no sculptures. Nothing lavish and decadent. Grantaire was standing there, still, silent, when life was teeming around him and his heart was pounding, loud, as loud as the market’s bell, as loud as his thoughts - and yet he could not bring himself to move. What if Enjolras was not there? What if he did not live there? And if he did not want to see him ? Why would he talk to him after everything Grantaire had done ? Grantaire had no regret about leaving the Court - it was about time before Versailles ate him alive - but he had not think twice about going straight to Enjolras’ place. It seemed obvious to him, a thought he did not bring himself to question - not until now that he was standing in front of his door of course.  
    His door. His door opened. Grantaire felt thrown at the feet of a painting. The frame enhancing the blond curls, the blue eyes, oh, the fine marble of his face, and his smile, the warmth of his smile. How can memories turn into reality ? Even when they were both in Versailles, Grantaire had a hard time convincing himself that Enjolras was real. And when Enjolras left, Grantaire had dreamt so much of him, he turned into a memory. But there was no painting. The frame was the door’s, and Enjolras was not a god made man and given to history on a canvas ; truth was he was merely a man, the memory of the boy he was once still flashing on his face from time to time, and the surprise on his face made him the most human of all ; and he was standing right before Grantaire. And Grantaire could not help himself but to fall in a state of adoration each time he came close to him, and how long would his heart be able to take this ?  
    “Grantaire !”  
    The music did not cease. The music went forte. And his voice, clear as open strings, a soft andante. Grantaire could not bring himself to alter the melody, not yet.  
    “To what do I owe this visit from you ?”  
    Enjolras could not hide the hint of surprise in his voice, staccatos on his syllables. Grantaire could have send a letter, a note, anything, had he knew. What to answer ? Even Grantaire did not foreshadow his visit, he did not even know he was going to leave Versailles when he woke up this morning.  
    “The maid gave me your address.”  
    The blue eyes widened in surprise. Surprise made Enjolras exquisite, to fall for. The wide open eyes, the lifted brows, half-opened mouth that allowed him to peer on every detail of his crimson lips… Which turned into a bright smile, bringing a spark into his eyes.  
    “It’s a pleasure to see one of my colleagues, at last !”  
    And Enjolras took Grantaire’s hand and led him inside, to his place.  
    “Weren’t you about to go out ?” asked Grantaire, as they climbed the stairs. The door had opened before him, before he even had the time to figure out what to do. Enjolras was going out, was about to at least ; and Grantaire was quite convinced he had disturbed him. He had a folder under his arm. Grantaire assumed it was filled with music.  
    “Just some errands… But it can wait. I’m so glad to see you!”  
    “I’m so glad to see you” he had said. Grantaire was almost mad at how it was easy for Enjolras to make his heart beat frantically, against reason and everything that is right. Did Enjolras even know what he was doing to him? Or maybe he was just… Being Enjolras. Fiery, and spontaneous, too lively to take the time to take a step back and ponder.

    The door closed behind Grantaire and he discovered an almost small flat, a messy flat. There were music sheets everywhere. On the piano forte, taking most of the room, on the table, on the sofa, on the floor. It was chaotic, but yet, much like Enjolras’ music, it made sense. There was an order. Those sheets had a purpose being where they were. Grantaire took a step forward as Enjolras tried to gather his sheets - he was quick but clumsy, when he picked two sheets, three would fall from his arms, and he put most of them in a little closet. Grantaire deduced that the many sheets on the piano forte were his actual work. He recognized the overture of the piece that costed him Versailles over there, in a corner - and its fermata at the other end of the room.  
    Enjolras came back with two steaming cups on a tray and gestured the sofa to Grantaire.  
    “Please, have a seat ! I hope you like coffee !  
\- Coffee is perfect, thank you.  
\- So tell me, what is it like in Versailles ?  
\- You did quite an impression, that night. I don’t think the Versaillais will forget that. We never have talked about it but your opera…  
\- Did you like it ?”  
    And, as he was phrasing his question, Enjolras put his hand on Grantaire’s, his voice raised in eagerness.  
    “Enjolras, it was a masterpiece. I’m so sorry it closed so fast.  
- Thank you. You’re the first one to say something positive about it. And, coming from you, it means a lot.”  
    And he smiled. And Grantaire’s heart echoed the rhythm in his voice. Slow, heavy, thick, thick as the blood of the heart.  
    “You’re the first one to come, you know.”  
    Enjolras, never short on resources, did not let silence set when faced with Grantaire’s lack of response. He shifted his position, almost uneasy, so he could face Grantaire. He was closer, Enjolras’ knee nudging against his. Grantaire’s heart did not slow.  
    “The director of the opera, the singers, the musicians, we were on good terms. But they didn’t come visit. The presence of a friendly face is truly refreshing.  
\- I’ve left Versailles.”  
    Enjolras’ eyes widened. He remained silent and Grantaire finally had the courage to meet his gaze. He looked surprised, but there was so much more than what was meeting Grantaire’s eyes. Something else was underlying the warm sparkle in his blue eyes.  
    “But, Grantaire, I don’t understand, don’t you love Versailles ?  
\- I thought I did. But Versailles without you didn’t make so much sense anymore.  
\- Did you… Please don’t tell me you left Versailles because of me. How can you make your music heard now ? Grantaire, I’m so sorry.  
\- Enjolras, please, don’t… You have nothing to apologize for. I kept thinking about things we talked about, about the things you said. I think you were right. Maybe my music won’t be heard anymore, but it will be free.  
\- I can't believe you’re not in Versailles anymore. I think you did well. Versailles wasn’t what I expected, as a musician. But I heard about the Court, the… Everything. It’s decaying. Their world is in agony. I don’t think they have much time left.  
\- You’d see them. They’re so scared by the idea of a world that wouldn’t be their. And yet they live as if nothing has changed, as if everything is fine.  
\- Versailles is far away enough not to hear the riots, right ? It has gotten so much worse since the King called off the Estates General.  
\- To think the Kings pulled away from Paris… And now Paris is distancing itself from the King.  
\- Leaving the old world fall behind is the first step to build a new one. Hopefully we’ll live to see it happens.”  
    Enjolras was not one for the rules. When chaos surged, he was hopeful. When tomorrows seemed uncertain, he dreamt of what would came after. Grantaire wondered if those were the words of a stargazer or those of a man ahead of his time. A thoughtful silence had set between the two men, enhanced by the whisper of Paris.   
    “I’ve missed you, you know.”  
    Nothing of this was real. Grantaire could not answer because it was not real. Enjolras could not have said those words, not to him. It was not real. But he was so close to him, and he smelt of warmth and lavender, and his senses were playing against reason. But Grantaire’s heart was not pounding when he dreamt. And his heart was beating so fast, and the time, and the music were so slow, and Enjolras was closing the distance between the two of them, oh so slowly ; unless maybe he was too fast. It could not be real, and yet one of Enjolras’ curls brushed softly against Grantaire’s cheek, and it did not felt right because it was so slow. Enjolras was close, so close, but it was Grantaire who bridged the distance, and their lips met. Time stopped, and the music went crescendo.  
    Nothing of this was real, but Grantaire could feel Enjolras’ tender lips against his. It was soft, warm, and feeling Enjolras’ body, thinner than in his memories, pressed against his, he understood. He understood his longing, and maybe Enjolras’ as well, whose delicate fingers began to wander through his unruly curls. Grantaire felt himself melt under Enjolras’ touch, as he was losing his breath, as he was hearing nothing but Enjolras’ breathing and his heart racing, as he was losing himself in the lingering kiss.  
    Enjolras felt like freedom, and his kiss was akin to a revolution. They pulled apart from each other and stayed close, Enjolras’ gaze deep into his. An intense blue who bared his soul. Enjolras stroked kindly his cheekbones.  
    “You’ve got eyes like the grand masters used to paint”, he whispered to Grantaire. And Grantaire could have died right there, right at this moment. He closed his eyes, and he could feel, under his touch, Enjolras’ heart, racing as well, his lips brushing against his. Grantaire remained silent, his silence allowing him to feel the time, the rhythm, to taste Paris and liberty, allowing him to listen to the music, to Enjolras’ music. And the andante went andantino.  
    Enjolras was not one for the rules. And Grantaire had fallen with him, for him. And Grantaire had fallen hard. And it felt so good. And it felt so wrong. There were words and rules for people loving like Grantaire and Enjolras did, and Grantaire could not bring himself to associate them to Enjolras. The taste in Grantaire’s mouth turned bitter. And his heart was still pounding, but not in the same way than it did seconds ago. It was not right. It was dangerous. And Grantaire was not willing to put Enjolras’ fate at stake because of his feelings. He would not allow it.  
    “I have to leave”, he whispered hurriedly, and, before Enjolras had the time to answer, before Grantaire changed his mind, he got up from the sofa. Enjolras’ eyes were wide, asking a million questions, and Grantaire knew his glance had no answers to offer him. It was painful, to tear his gaze away from Enjolras’.  
     Grantaire knew his heart could not take this.


	5. Presto

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "W.A. Mozart - Don Giovanni, K 527; Act 2, Commendatore Scene"  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K9786j94XY4

    Grantaire knew his heart could not take this.  
    He wanted to flee, as far as possible, as fast as possible. And he wanted to rush back to Enjolras’ embrace at once. The crowd did not soothe him, it swallowed him whole. Grantaire felt thousands of eyes weighing on him, and as many accusing glances. Did they know? Did they hear the soft breathing between their brushing lips? Did they see the fingers intertwined in the curls? They were close, so close and the whispers so low, and his flat was small, and his sin was a secret - it should have been one. But there, in the streets of Paris, in the broad daylight, it was as if everyone knew. As if all of Paris had been there. Grantaire was wishing to disappear, to fall off entirely from the surface of this god-forsaken planet. He walked instead. Aimlessly, frantically, carried by the crowd, the tide, and the movements.  
    Where to now? If that was freedom, Grantaire hated it. He hated his aching heart. He hated his shortness of breath, his twitchy hands, his erratic paces. He loathed the tingling memory his curls left on his fingers. He hated the freedom he tasted on Enjolras’ lips, because that freedom was a lie. For those who loved like Enjolras and Grantaire did, there were laws, there were punishments, there were consequences, and none of them was leading to freedom. Freedom, as a whole, was a lie, and the distant riots were echoing his thoughts.

    The world needed Enjolras. It needed his genius, his energy, his music, his struggles, his red, his gold. And it would have been selfish of Grantaire to steal Enjolras from the world for a frivolous kiss. A kiss he could still feel on his lips days after. Grantaire had found himself a room, close to the National Theatre, a cheap room that would allow him not sleep with the children of the streets. He was buying them food when he was going out. Versailles had kept him far from reality - the first purpose of the palace was to be a golden jail for the nobles of France, and God, did it work. Grantaire had taken upon himself not to see Enjolras again. To forget him. To keep on living his life as if nothing happened. For the better.   
    It took less than a week to give up on his vow - who would have he fooled anyway? The National Theatre was about to play one of his pieces. His new one. The one he saw at his flat the day they… Grantaire knew Enjolras’ music rendered him helpless. Like a moth to a flame. And all the vows in the world were not going to keep him away from it. Enjolras’ works would be the only guilty pleasure Grantaire would allow himself.  
    He attended each representation. Often at the back of the room, sometimes at a balcony, where he could observe the bows dancing in synchrony, and the dancers moving as a whole as the singers’ tessitura would align with the instruments, and the gold, and the stars. They blended at moments, completed each other at others, the rhythm creating a dialogue between bodies, clashing, teasing, playing, merging. Did the gods that blessed Enjolras sit at the balcony of fate and smile upon his future the day they gifted him? Did the gods laugh as they elected Grantaire to be his obverse through the times? Enjolras was fighting to rise and make a name for himself, and Grantaire was fighting for his name to remain unseen to the eyes of History. He was but half a musician: he did not compose anymore. Oh, he had students to provide him his income, but composing… He could not. Not as he was hearing Enjolras’ work every night. His music was a spell, a binding spell, turning strings of notes into haunting tunes, hovering in the back of his mind for days, keeping him from thinking straight for nights.

    “THE BASTILLE HAS FALLEN!”  
    Grantaire had woke up to the shouts this day. The Bastille had fallen into the hands of the riot. The first thoughts of Grantaire went to Enjolras. He would have given everything he had to see the fierce glimmer of hope in his eyes. It was a warm day of July, and a spark had set Paris on fire.   
    “TO THE REVOLUTION!”  
    Paris was burning with passion, riots, and music. The outcries and the chants, often going hand in hand. The Revolution was blossoming but had yet to turn Paris upside down. Grantaire still had students. The National Theatre was still open. And Enjolras was still composing.  
    His works did not last at the Theatre. If he had the favours of the Gods, he did not regain the favours of the Court and the anxious Nobles of Paris, and the Theatre did not pay much. But Enjolras kept composing, more and always, letting the music flow out of his mind and the ink flow out of his quill. He had been one of the most prolific composers of Versailles, back in the day. He had to compose twice as much in Paris, as he was relying solely on the pay from the Theatre, that was closing his operas and symphonies at a fast pace; a pace Enjolras was trying to keep by composing faster. When the Theatre closed one of his pieces, too soon, always too soon, Enjolras would write another. The rhythm in his symphonies was faster than before, allegros and prestos taking over andantes and adagios. Oh, his music was divine as always, but it became hasty, as its creator was writing as he was running out of time.

    The tuning orchestra would always find balance, a feeling akin to a reversing blast; the sound of chaos falling in order. From noise to harmony. It was fascinating to Grantaire to see how Enjolras was pouring his soul and his being in his works. In each piece, Grantaire would find bits of him, of his life. Star-crossed lovers after their kiss. Mightier choruses as the Revolution spread. And his father. Grantaire had read it, one morning of Summer. He saw the name of Enjolras in the newspaper. But not his Enjolras. Somehow, the name of Enjolras’ father rang a bell to Grantaire. He had recollected hazed swathes of memories, conversations around the corner of a corridor in Versailles, blurred by the wine; Enjolras mentioning his father was reminiscent to him. It has been a surprise to Grantaire - they were so different from each other, obverses certainly, nemeses almost - to learn that Enjolras did not have the favours of his father either. Seeing the name of Enjolras’ father in the newspaper brought the memory back to him. “Rising to a higher social status mattered, and music did not”, Enjolras had said. “ Disagreeing wasn’t an option, but I took it anyway. It seemed like I wasn’t welcome to his home anymore after that.” Enjolras had shrugged at this moment, as to close the discussion. Which left Grantaire with more questions; his father had kicked Enjolras out of his home but for what? Was it his aspiration to music? His disdain for the old world or his fondness for those who speak for the voiceless? Or was it for another kind of fondness, one that would have cost his family their reputation had they not repudiated him? Grantaire had no answers, and the newspapers he was holding were not going to give him any. The father of Enjolras had passed. And yet.  
    Yet, he saw Enjolras’ father on stage. A massive, dark, imperious, paternal figure, at the center of the stage; a baritone, loud, singing with heavy accents of reproof and reproach. The kid that Enjolras once was had brought back his father from the dead and offered him his eulogy on stage. And the music was so low and solemn, as if Enjolras had channeled his pain, his grief into an opera so not only his heart would ache, but the hearts of all of those that would listen to his pain made music. Grantaire was always stricken by Enjolras’ works, but this. This.  
    The last opera of Enjolras was reaching for heights he never attained before. His music had taken a different kind of subtlety. The pristine delicacy of his melodies, the thoughtfulness embodying the carelessness, had yielded to moody shades. When Grantaire met Enjolras for the first time, he was barely a young man, his younger years showing on his face, through his words, sometimes in the sparkle of his eyes, and in his music. His music often prevailing over his life, ultimately costing him his place. But it seemed to Grantaire that life had overtaken Enjolras’ music, as if he had lived too much so he could no longer let his music unaffected. And the blending of life and music brought another dimension to his music; the gods that gifted him unveiled another layer of his genius. His music was not only sheer, unaltered beauty, not anymore - his music used beauty to sing the tales of humanity, giving Enjolras the power to capture its faults and failings. The truth that it had begun with the piece that cost him his place in Versailles, and his reproaches to the human kind did not cease; only they were more discreet, underlying in the music, the scenery, the rhythm. Enjolras had learned to turn his pamphlets into nonverbal features. Enjolras’ usual fits of passion were shaping his representations in the Theatre with the new range of symbolism he built, bringing a new kind of significance and heaviness to the atmosphere. The stargazer had indulged to the turmoil of reality, only ensued in the growth of his genius.

   A bitter maxim would say that nothing in this world comes for free. And Grantaire became the fortuitous witness of its realization. Grantaire did not count the days since he last saw him, since he saw him closely, condemning himself to be a distant spectator.  
    He made an exception. Just this day. It was the last representation of the opera featuring the ghost of Enjolras’ father. So Grantaire allowed himself to be closer. Just this once. And it struck him. Enjolras was pouring his soul into his music and it had taken a physical toll on him. Why did he not noticed earlier? And, as the overture resonated in the Theatre, his heart ached a little more than usual. His red silhouette was thinner, the bones of his hands standing out more than in his memories, the memories of hands stroking his cheeks; his drawn face enhancing the dark circles under his eyes. It was the last time he would hear the opera of Enjolras, and yet, he was not able to focus. He should have invested his entire being in listening, catching phrases and moments to remember forever but he could not. Not that night. Not like this. “What is the sparkle in your eyes like now?” he wondered as he could not focus on the music. Did he have enough life left in him to sustain the embers? That night, Grantaire was not able to keep his eyes off Enjolras. Off his fragile frame, too small for the vast Opera, gifted with a music larger than life, larger than his.

    The fall came sooner than what Grantaire expected. Enjolras fell in silence, a silence that spread to the orchestra, the stage, the Opera. His body could not take it anymore. He had faltered, each scene drawing energy from him, his gestures grew fainter until he paused, stumbled and fell. For every sleepless night, for every skipped meal, there was a toll, a price Enjolras paid just before the incarnation of his father stepped into the stage. His last representation would never know its ending. Music stopped but time did not.  
    “Enjolras!”  
    His cry had echoed through his body, leaving his lips faster than he could realise. Echoing through the house and breaking the silence, Grantaire felt the weight of a thousand glances weighing on his tense shoulders. His heart was racing in deafening pounds; as if it was beating for two.  
    Grantaire pushed his way through the crowd to Enjolras.Whispers punctuated his hasty steps, and as he finally got close to him, they did not matter so much anymore. The multitudes of the world were more bearable when he was by Enjolras’ side. The whispers were absorbed by the blur of the world when Grantaire intertwined their fingers, this time without a vacillation. The same crowd that once swallowed him spat him out to the man he loved.  
    “Let’s bring you home.”  
    His hand was warm, as warm as the Sun, his music, his smile. His hair was soft, as soft as his voice, the tenderness in his eyes, his cheek Grantaire brushed once. His eyes were closed, closed like the gates of Versailles, too many of his operas, and the windows of Enjolras’ flat this day. His breathing was weak, as weak as the candle flames flickering around them and Grantaire’s knees when he was around him. But he was not going to give up on him. Not again.

**Author's Note:**

> jehan-in-the-flowers.tumblr.com


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